It’s ok to feel delicate sometimes. Real beauty is in the fragility of your petals. A rose that never wilts isn’t a rose at all. ~ Crystal Woods ~
During this extraordinarily weird period of self-isolating, I’ve been distracting myself by doing some artistic exercises with inspiration and guidance by artist Ian Sidaway.
The fading roses were plucked from my garden immediately after heavy rain. I used pen and ink as well as watercolour.
Whenever I finish a drawing or painting, I always ask myself whether I’d be happy to put my picture up on the wall inside my house. Recently the answer has been a resounding “no!”. But that’s alright as they’re not meant to be finished works of art, they are merely exercises in observation and trying new techniques.
Before I go, I just want to say that if I hear one more person say “new normal” I may just lose it. It is not normal and saying it over and over does not make it true. It is temporary!
While you’re here I may as well rid my heaving bosom of something that still has me simultaneously wincing and fuming.
A recent television program documented preparations for an exhibition at the Leopold Museum in Vienna where some witless noodle made the sorry decision to show self-absorbed Tracey Emin’s gratuitous tosh alongside my favourite artist, Egon Scheile (cue audible ey-roll). Really? You just couldn’t make it up. It was embarrassing.
Emin, as inebriated by her own suppurating ego as by the liquor she guzzles, is so trapped by her urge to shock that the outrage she strives for has become a cliché. Her teeth-suckingly offensive ‘work’ has no correlation to art and I freely throw prejudicial cups of tea in the direction of those who confuse art with self-publication.
It’s hard to believe that people pay to stare at this excruciatingly crude fakery and that those who part with vast sums of money to own this pointless, ugly stuff are educated people. The joke is on them. It is freak art masquerading as originality. Self-indulgent clap-trap and most of us have her sussed.
You can probably tell that I consider Emin and her ilk to have all the appeal of a flatulent dog in a lift.
I don’t have her millions nor her obtuse, fawning devotees, but I am confident that whatever I paint will always have more merit than anything Tracely Emin can do.
My husband is right – I do morph into curmudgeonly Victor Meldrew on this subject.
As an antidote to all that negativity – inspired by flower paintings by artist friends who make it look much easier than it is – herewith some sketches where I trusted the paint and allowed the water to do the work. Marks were also made using the brush handle.